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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459502">always: me, for you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/pseuds/sunnilee'>sunnilee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Pining, accidental sylvain character study, and definitely in C and B support they both get defensive, and ingrid says always me always for you, as always, bc he can't drop his act enough to be sincere about it any other way, because his supports with ingrid, but sylvain does the same thing in his actions, got me feeling, she doesn't truly pin him down until he's that sweet honest boy again, so here i am psychoanalyzing my faves, that maybe all these years as much as ingrid understands him, who doesn't know how to talk to girls properly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:40:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/pseuds/sunnilee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout the years, Sylvain has gotten pretty good at throwing people off with his half-truths, including Ingrid.<br/>He never really imagined how much it would hurt when that's all she believes.</p><p>or: 5 times Ingrid misunderstands Sylvain at face-value, and the 1 time she sees deeper than what he offers.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Felix Hugo Fraldarius &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea &amp; Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sylvgrid week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. subtle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperpenpal/gifts">paperpenpal</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/gifts">nicole_writes</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/gifts">Julx3tte</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emi_Waka/gifts">Emi_Waka</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for the lovely writers listed above: thank you for encouraging me with your kind comments on almost every single piece I've written.</p><p>It means the world and it feeds the soul :).</p><p>This is the project that ignited my sylvgrid trail, but y'all kept adding fuel to the fire... so it only makes sense this is dedicated to you.</p><p>(and to my irl sylvgrid enablers who goaded me into making this all possible: this is for you too)</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sylvain is only 8 and he doesn't know what to do with himself.</p><p>...neither does Ingrid.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain Jose Gautier is 8 years old and he’s pretty sure he has anxiety. No, not from Miklan or his parents, not from Felix, not even from his highness, Dimitri.</p><p>No, he has anxiety because one of his best friends, Ingrid, is wearing a new, pale green dress, and <em>did his heart always beat this funny?</em></p><p>The four of them are on the Galatea estate, soaking in the sun during the rare summer season. Well, three of them. Sylvain remains just shy of the sunshine, hoping the shade from the tree would hide his flushed face. <em>He could never stand the heat for that long anyway.</em> He wipes his palms hastily against his pants, huffing in frustration. He’s <em>never</em> tongue-tied, never has been since the day he could talk.</p><p>He chances a glance to his group of friends and Ingrid catches his eye. She shoots him a funny look, but waves nonetheless. Sylvain feels his heart jump into his throat and just barely throws his hand up to wave back before she turns away again, listening to something Dimitri said.</p><p>He collapses in on himself and drops his head to his knees, a long sigh unconsciously escaping him. He hears a chuckle from above and finds himself staring into familiar green eyes. His face flushes against his will and he scrambles to straighten out his clothes. “Madam Galatea—”</p><p>Sylvain’s voice dies in his throat when a gentle hand pats his head and Ingrid’s grandmother joins him in the grass.  “Please, Sylvain. Let an old woman sit without all the formalities.”</p><p>He shuts his mouth and nods silently, his gaze slowly drifting back to his group of friends. A flutter of pale green catches his attention again and Sylvain quickly turns his head away, he has <em>no </em>desire to be caught—only to find Ingrid’s grandmother smiling at him knowingly. “That was quite the reaction. What’s wrong, Sylvain?”</p><p>His palms are sweaty. Again. “Wrong? N-nothing’s wrong!”</p><p>“Then why are you sulking under this tree, alone, instead of with your friends?”</p><p><em>Caught.</em> “I… I don’t feel well! I’m allowed to not feel well, aren’t I?”</p><p>Laughter fills his ears and Sylvain could just feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with my granddaughter, now would it, young Gautier?”</p><p>“What!? No, she’s not—I mean, no it doesn’t!”</p><p>“Then why won’t you join your friends or look me in the eye?”</p><p>Sylvain indignantly meets her challenge and regrets it <em>immediately</em>. Her blonde hair and kind green eyes were so much like Ingrid’s—Sylvain slaps his hands over his face and flops backward onto the grass with a pitiful whine.</p><p>Ingrid’s grandmother laughs again, and Sylvain wants to melt into the ground. He feels her patting his head again and he uncovers his red face, looking at her miserably. “You’re a sweet child, Sylvain, but perhaps it would do you well to be more… subtle.”</p><p>Sylvain relaxes marginally with her words and sighs as dramatically as he can. “Maybe… but how else am I going to react around a pretty girl?”</p><p>Before he gets to hear her advice, Sylvain feels the hair on the back of his neck rise and his heart starts racing again for an entirely <em>different </em>reason. He could recognize the feeling of that glare from miles away.</p><p>“Sylvain, you leave my poor granny alone!” He gets yanked into the sunlight by his collar and suddenly, he’s on damage control. “We leave you alone for five minutes—"</p><p>“I wasn’t—”</p><p>“I can’t believe you said that to my granny, how could you?”</p><p>He doesn’t get a single word in edgewise, but he also finds that he doesn’t mind that much either. He looks back at Ingrid’s grandmother and she sends him an eye-crinkling smile.</p><p>As Ingrid scolds his ear off, he can’t help but wonder why it didn't quite reach her eyes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>happy sylvgrid week day 1: childhood!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. what is it?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sylvain is 10 and Felix asks a question he doesn't know the answer to, and that fluttering feeling never went away.</p><p>If anything, it got worse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain is 10 years old and they’re at the harvest festival where he unsuccessfully keeps his heart at bay. It’s 2 years later and he <em>knows</em> Ingrid’s been promised to Felix’s older brother, but that <em>whiny, annoying</em> part of him insists.</p><p>On what? He really doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to find out.</p><p>As soon as they step foot onto the cobblestone path, Ingrid grabs his hand and makes a beeline toward the cured meats stand. Sylvain sends a quick prayer to the goddess that she didn’t feel his pulse spike just now. Just as suddenly, Ingrid drops his hand as she eagerly reaches for the meats she just bought. He watches her take a giant, hunkering bite out of one of the skewers and hum with delight as she chews. He laughs at her reaction and idly wonders if anything else has ever made her as happy as meat does. Sylvain just about voices as much when he spots the Fraldarius brothers making their way toward them, his question quickly dying before it makes it out of his mouth.</p><p>He feels his insides twist as he watches Ingrid hastily finish her skewer and flatten the invisible creases in her dress, a bright smile adorning her face as Glenn comes into view. His heart pounds painfully in his chest and Madam Galatea’s words ring in his head. <em>Subtle. Be subtle.</em></p><p>And so, he plasters on his best smile and greets his best friend and the older brother he wishes he had (and if he’s being honest with himself, the person he childishly wishes he could be).</p><p>He’s relieved when Felix inadvertently pulls him out of his thoughts by dragging him off to another corner of the festival, only just processing low grumbles about how their best friend has stolen all his brother’s time and affection as soon as the engagement was announced. Feeling vindicated but also guilty for <em>feeling</em> vindicated, he mumbles, “I don’t know Fe… doesn’t that just mean he loves her?”</p><p>His own statement leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and he barely masks his dour expression with a quick smile when Felix whips around to stare incredulously at him, looking betrayed. “Yeah, but what is it that makes him love her? What makes her so special? He dotes on her all the time, whether she’s in Fraldarius territory or not! He barely has time for me anymore, so <em>what is it that—</em>ugh, never mind!”</p><p>Felix storms off before he can get another word in, but he hears the unasked question anyway. <em>What is it that makes him love her more than me? </em></p><p>Sighing, he starts weaving through the crowd after him. Sylvain highly doubts Glenn loves Ingrid more than Felix, but he understands what his best friend is feeling. <em>If he had a brother like Glenn…</em> Bile rises in his throat as flashes of red hair appear in his vision, haunting him in the hallways of his home. Bruises he covers with long sleeves in the summer. The exhaustion that comes with sleeping light, waiting to hear the creak of his bedroom door open in the middle of the night, because he will never forget feeling of cotton covering his nose and mouth, scratching at arms far stronger than his, barely getting out screams with no air left in his lungs—</p><p>
  <em>He can’t breathe.</em>
</p><p>Thoughts of finding Felix forgotten, Sylvain darts out of the throngs of people to the edge of the festival to catch his breath, his footfalls on the paved stone out of sync with his pounding heart. His vision is tunneling, and he needs to <em>sit down.</em> Skidding to a stop in the grass, he folds into himself and shoves his head between his knees, eyes squeezed shut. Miklan’s hatred for him had only increased in recent weeks… but somehow, he still hangs onto hope that he’ll have a proper older brother if he does what he says. If he’s a good little brother.</p><p>But every trip out of and back to the Gautier estate proves him wrong. Every time. He’s stupid for holding onto his hope. <em>Stupid</em>.</p><p>With a few more gulps of air, Sylvain lifts his head and takes in his surroundings. His feet had taken him to the orchards that partook in the festivities. Slowly standing, he wanders along the rows of trees, breathing in the crisp scent of apples. He watches the dirt give easily underneath his boots, and he idly kicks at a stray pebble, wondering if he should head back to the festival or if anyone’s even noticed he’s gone. As the wind rustles the leaves, he remembers how Felix stormed off. He still has to find him! His friend might be fierce but he’s still only 8! And he also has to find… and Ingrid and Glenn.</p><p>The names freeze him in his tracks and he’s suddenly overwhelmed with an emotion he can’t place. He clenches his fists and Sylvain finds himself glaring accusingly at a scarecrow when he whips his head up. Golden straw hair, green button eyes, a stitched on smile and all. He huffs loudly, feeling as lost and confused as he did two years ago, lying in the shade of a tree with Ingrid’s grandmother. He remembers the gentle smile. The sad eyes.</p><p>His mouth twists into a frown and his fingers clutch at the pang in his chest. <em>What is it? </em></p><p>The deep, hollow ache in his chest spreads. His fingertips go numb and the rest of his body goes cold. His breathing is shallow again and his ears are ringing. He <em>hurts</em>, but he can’t even tell <em>where</em>. His hands sweep through his hair and an unintelligible yell bursts out of him. He fixes the scarecrow with a desperate scowl. “What <em>is</em> it?”</p><p>“Sylvain!”</p><p>He whirls around to find Ingrid stalking toward him, worry and fury laced in her eyes. His hands fly up reflexively in a placating position, but she reaches straight for the collar of his shirt. And <em>tugs.</em> “Ow, Ingrid!”</p><p>As she drags him away from the orchard, she scolds him, “Do you know how worried we were? Glenn and I turned around, and you and Felix were just gone! Glenn found Felix easily enough by the blacksmith display, but you—”</p><p>“I just needed some space and fresh air—”</p><p>“Well maybe tell one of us next time!” Sylvain begins to feel the irritating sense of hope swell as Ingrid continues to scold him. “Do you know how awful Glenn feels right now? Letting an unpredictable ten year old out of his sight, all alone—”</p><p>And it was gone. His easy smile slipped onto his face. “I wasn’t alone! Didn’t you see my lovely friend? She kept me company the entire time!”</p><p>She throws a quick glance over his shoulder and scoffs, “Maybe I need to get you some glasses, Sylvain. Lovely, really? That was a scarecrow!”</p><p>He bites his tongue and falls quiet, their boots kicking up dust in the dirt until they reach the paved road. After a moment, he mumbles, “How did you find me anyway?”</p><p>Ingrid eases her grip on his collar, staring at him with confusion. His heart stops when her words roll off her tongue with ease. “You’re my best friend, Sylvain. I always know where you are.”</p><p>With that, she slips her hand into his clammy one and leads him back to the festival. She squeezes his hand tightly each time an adult brushes past them, making sure he’s still there, and he squeezes back. Sylvain is silent, trailing behind her. Silent, when Ingrid waves her hand to catch Glenn’s attention. Silent, when he watches the older boy’s eyes soften with relief and something else.</p><p><em>What is it that makes him love her? </em>Sylvain feels the frustration prickle in his chest again, and he digs his nails into his palms.</p><p><em>What is it…?</em> <em><br/>
</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>happy sylvgrid week day 4: bittersweet</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. me, for you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sylvain is 15 years old when he decides he never, <em>ever</em>, wants to be like Glenn.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain is 15 years old when he feels like the universe has played a twisted joke on him. No matter how old he gets, he still hasn’t lost that stupid hope that his brother will come around. He followed Miklan out into the forest right after returning from a family celebration for Dimitri’s birthday, a week before the turn of the new year. His brother had said he wanted to talk, sibling to sibling, under the guise of a conversation that Miklan didn’t want their father to hear. He was hesitant, of course, but he agreed anyway.</p><p>Turns out, Miklan didn’t lie to him. It <em>was</em> a conversation their father shouldn’t hear. It was a conversation that pushed the wedge of hatred further between them and that ended with him being pushed into the dark, cold waters of an abandoned well in the middle of a Faerghus winter.</p><p>Now, he sits at home, bedridden with pneumonia and broken bones, while the world spins on. It had taken the Gautier guards until sundown to find him shivering at the bottom of the narrow shaft, with a fractured arm and leg, lungs filled with the water he swallowed in his initial panic.</p><p>The healer told him he was lucky. Sylvain wasn’t sure if he agreed with that.</p><p>After being brought back from the brink of death, his older brother hadn’t returned to finish the job. In fact, a week has passed since then and Miklan was still nowhere in sight.</p><p>Because of that alone, he could <em>not </em>rest easy.</p><p>He could barely keep his eyes open most days, but his pulse would spike every time his door creaked. He had been trying to get some more sleep, when there was a sudden burst of sounds, panicked scrambling and muffled orders he thinks he hears from his father.</p><p>
  <em>What is going on?</em>
</p><p>His door cracks open with a servant delivering his medicine. She drops off the tray on his nightstand and busies her skirts to follow the Margrave’s next orders, briefly sparing him a glance, checking that he wasn’t dead. Sylvain barely manages to sit up, his body aching and protesting every move. He sees her open the door when he forces his throat to croak out, “Wait… Amelia… what’s going on?”</p><p>She flinches at his voice, surprised he was awake enough to interact. “You should be resting—”</p><p>He smiles weakly, “I can hardly rest with the circus that’s going on out there.”</p><p>He watches her eyes dart from him to the bustling hallway. He takes a rattling breath and coughs, wet and deep. Amelia hurries over when he shrinks in on himself and eases him back in bed, hands fretting over the cold sweat that’s broken out on his forehead and the sudden paleness of his skin. She just began to towel off his face when he catches one of her hands, filing the blush on her face for later. “Tell me?”</p><p>He can feel her tense in his grasp, eyes flying back to the door. “I should go attend to—”</p><p>He squeezes her hand. “Please?”</p><p>She purses her lips and eases out of his grasp. “Take your medicine. Wait a few hours and… I will see what I can do. The Margrave needs all hands available, including mine.”</p><p>Amelia slips out his door without another word. Sylvain grimaces as he takes his medicine and lies back in bed, eyes sliding shut as he wonders what could possibly make the whole house panic like this. <em>Are the Srengs invading again?</em></p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, hours later, Sylvain wakes to a quieted house and folded letter. A letter dated a three days ago.</p><p> </p><p>A letter that currently shakes in his hands as he reads the harried script.</p><p><br/>
The king is dead. Glenn is dead.</p><p>Dimitri watched it all happen.</p><p>Felix lost his older brother.</p><p>Ingrid lost her fiancé.</p><p>Just before he passes out, one thought flits to the forefront of his mind.</p><p>
  <em>Isn’t it Ingrid’s birthday?</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>It’s February 20<sup>th</sup> and Sylvain sits silently in a changed Fraldarius house. No more are the teasing shoves between brothers or the exasperated sighs from a tired, but amused father.</p><p>Instead, he’s met with a best friend who has a new scowl etched onto his face and an absent Lord Rodrigue. He’d been curious to where his friend’s father was, as he usually gets a warm greeting from the man each time he visits, but one look at Felix’s sunken eyes gave him enough cues to know better.</p><p>He watches Felix push his pastry to the edge of the plate for the seventh time, glaring holes into the table, and sighs. Sylvain plucks the fork out of his friend’s hand and replaces it with his hastily wrapped gift. Knowing full well it’s probably a bad idea with his right arm still sore, he summons all his energy and smiles. “I know you don’t like sweet things, but I think that cake’s had just about enough. You wanna go spar instead?”</p><p>He isn’t sure what kind of response he was expecting, but seeing his best friend’s fingers tighten around his gift, carefully schooled mask crumpling— Sylvain is out of his seat instantly and his hands are shoving Felix’s face into his shoulder.</p><p>He feels his wet shirt before he hears the quiet, choked up sniffles. He tightens his grip and whispers, “I’m sorry, Felix.”</p><p>A quiet, frustrated grumble reaches his ears. “It’s not your fault.”</p><p>He lets out a long breath and stares at the creased paper of his gift, the metal of the ornamental dagger’s handle sticking out. <em>He probably should’ve chosen something else</em>. “Still. I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”</p><p>His throat closes at the thought of having to explain, but Felix shrugs in his hold and keeps his face hidden in his shirt, still shaking from long overdue tears. He stays quiet in his friend’s grief, knowing words aren’t enough to soothe anything. <em>Hopefully, his presence makes it even a tiny bit better.</em></p><p>He doesn’t know how much time passes by, but long enough for the shadows in the dining room to change, and long enough for a few house servants to linger in the doorway, looking for ways to help. He tries to wave them away subtly, without shaking the shoulder Felix stays hidden in, but his friend pushes away from him and quickly swipes at his eyes with his sleeve. Sylvain sits back, leaning on his hands for support, while he watches his friend grab his present off the table and shuffle over to the servants, passing the dagger off after a mumbled exchange.</p><p>When Felix turns around again, the mask is back in place. “Are you staying over?”</p><p>“If that’s okay—”</p><p>“It’s fine. Let’s go.”</p><p>Felix makes a sharp left away from the winding staircase leading up to his room, and Sylvain follows without question. They end up in the study, where a servant has just finished stoking the fireplace. He bows deeply and leaves without another word. Sylvain studies the mass of pillows and blankets scattered on the floor, before shifting his gaze to his friend. Felix is already sitting cross-legged on the ground, staring hollowly into the fire. His hands clench and unclench around a blanket that Sylvain recognizes as Glenn’s.</p><p>“I don’t like passing by his room, knowing that it’ll always be empty.”</p><p>Sylvain is surprised by the admission, but he stays quiet. He joins Felix on the ground and scoots closer until their arms are pressed together, a silent show of support.</p><p>“It’s not worth it, serving the crown,” Felix spits out, “You die, and then what? Your family survives, but they’re picking up the scraps you left behind? Absolutely not.” With each new breath, Sylvain can hear the anger growing in his friend’s voice. “Why would you ever do something as idiotic as that? Why would you <em>ever</em> run off and die before everyone you care about?”</p><p>“Then let’s make a promise.” Felix’s eyes snap to his. “We’ll stick together forever, until the day we die. I won’t go dying on you. You won’t go dying on me. Deal?” He stretches out his pinky to Felix with an impish smile, expecting his hand to get slapped away. Instead, another pinky hooks onto his.</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p>Promise sealed, they watch the flames lick away at the firewood as the sun fully sinks below the horizon. Sylvain isn’t even aware that they dozed off until he wakes at the soft sound of a tray with water being set down beside them. He blinks groggily and finds Felix asleep on his leg, and the same servant from before silently apologizing for waking him. Shaking his head, he whispers, “What time is it?”</p><p>“Just past midnight, young—”</p><p>“Sylvain is fine. Where’s Lord Rodrigue?”</p><p>He watches the servant hesitate, his eyes darting to Felix’s sleeping form. “Lord Rodrigue is… with his highness, young Dimitri.”</p><p>“On Felix’s birthday?” Sylvain barely keeps his voice suppressed, his question coming out as a hiss.</p><p>The servant looks remorseful. “Yes.”</p><p>Sylvain gulps and exhales as evenly as he can. “Okay. Okay, thank you for telling me. Thank you for letting me stay over.”</p><p>“Of course, Sylvain. Thank you for… for keeping him company. Is there anything else you need?”</p><p>Sylvain grimaces at the numbness in the leg Felix sleeps on and the soreness of his arm. “Would you happen to have any elixirs for pain? I, um…” He hesitates and glances down at Felix again. His breathing is far too paced for him to be asleep. “I had a slight tussle with my horse on my way over here.”</p><p>“Yes, I believe we have some left. I’ll bring it to you shortly. Please wait just a moment.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>As the door shut quietly behind him, Felix mumbles from his position on the ground. “Are you lying?”</p><p>Sylvain tenses. “About what?”</p><p>He feels Felix huff. “Was it the horse, or was it Miklan?”</p><p>A sudden chill comes over him, despite the warmth of the fireplace he sits in front of. He never explicitly told his friends the extent of what his brother has put him through, but they managed to guess correctly. Usually. Though he hasn’t told them about the well, and he doesn’t ever plan to... <em>What were his troubles, compared to a dead family, a dead brother, and a dead fiancé?</em> He shrugs, “Miklan hasn’t been home since the new year. I think he’s seeing some new girl or something. Whatever it is, it’s kept him out of the house and away from me.”</p><p>He’s not sure if he imagines the whispered, “good riddance” from Felix or not, but guilt settles in the pit of his stomach anyway. Miklan, wherever he is, runs around, <em>alive</em>. Whereas Glenn… Sylvain closes eyes and tries to will away the nausea that creeps up his throat. He concentrates on the blackened bark of the firewood, crumbling as the fire burns on.</p><p>“Have you… heard from Ingrid?”</p><p>Sylvain tears his eyes away from the flames to stare at Felix. He wasn’t looking at him. “No, I haven’t… Why?”</p><p>Felix shifts uncomfortably on the ground, but still doesn’t turn to face him. “I wasn’t… very kind the last time I saw her. I haven’t heard from her since… since the funeral.”</p><p>His father had attended Glenn’s funeral without him, stating he had fallen ill during from the flu going around the territory, giving him more time to recover. Sylvain had been angry, indignant, but that lasted all of two seconds when he tried standing up on his own and nearly fell on his face. He still hasn’t seen Ingrid. Or Dimitri. He feels his heart drop. “What did you do?”</p><p>This gets Felix to sit up and Sylvain grunts at the sudden rush of blood in his leg. “I didn’t do anything! I might’ve… I might’ve just said the same things I said to you—”</p><p>“Felix—”</p><p>“I know, I know! I was <em>angry</em> and I just can’t understand why she thinks Glenn died a righteous death—”</p><p>“Felix, I get it.”</p><p>His friend exhales sharply and sinks back to the ground, head finding a pillow instead of his leg. “So, no word to you either?”</p><p>The guilt in his stomach burns deeper. The entire last month was foggy for him, but he does remember thinking of Ingrid’s birthday when he read the letter addressed to his father. “No, nothing.”</p><p>They watch a piece of wood split in two, sending embers into the chimney. Sylvain’s mouth is dry. “Should we visit her?”</p><p>He catches the frown on Felix’s face. “I don’t think she wants to see me right now. For one reason or another.”</p><p>Sylvain studies his friend’s profile a while longer and winces. “Right.”</p><p>The house servant returns with the pain elixir and Sylvain gulps it down easily, feeling relief wash over his arm and leg. Returning the empty bottle to the tray, the servant bids them goodnight and leaves them to stare at the dying fire.</p><p>“You should go.”</p><p>He blinks at Felix’s back. “What, now?”</p><p>He hears his friend snort. “No. I mean, go see Ingrid when you can.”</p><p>His gaze returns to the fire, tracing the dull red glow that lines the cracks of the remaining wood. “I will.”</p>
<hr/><p>It’s March and there’s still no word from Ingrid. When Sylvain returned from Fraldarius territory last month, his father met him at the border with Gautier soldiers. If he wanted to think highly of his family, he’d say his father came to ensure his safety.</p><p>If he thinks realistically, his father most likely came to ensure his crest-bearing son made it home in one piece.</p><p>Without further pleasantries, his father informed him that he would not be able to make any more trips off the estate for a month. Resources were being redistributed to Fhirdiad while the shaken Kingdom recovers from the assassinations of the Royal Family and their guards. Choking back his protests, Sylvain agreed and rode home behind his father in silence.</p><p>The month came and went. While Gautier soldiers and staff were dispatched to the capital, the house remained quiet. Almost too quiet.</p><p>Miklan still hadn’t returned, and Sylvain was flitting around the house trying to find something to do. Someone to help. He ends up helping Amelia in the kitchens, enjoying her company the most. He delights in finding out how he can get his hands into almost everything if he pouts or bats his eyes long enough. He loves teasing the cooks and the staff that flit in and out of the kitchen, relishing to see how red he can make their faces before they shoo him away with a good-natured laugh. Most of all, he finds the atmosphere created by the chefs and the surprising thrill that came with food preparation, keeping him distracted effectively. The wooden cutting board is solid beneath his fingers, and the chatter of daily life, a <em>normal</em> life… it keeps the dark whispers of his mind away.</p><p>On his particularly restless days, he gets kicked out before the food is done, flustering one too many people, or sticking his fingers in too many pots for a preemptive taste test. And that’s how he finds himself raising his hands in defeat, retreating from the kitchens as Amelia isn’t there to smooth over the chaos he stirred up today.</p><p>Debating what he should do for the rest of the afternoon with his travelling privileges returning soon, his thoughts jump back to his last visit to Fraldarius territory. He was keeping in touch with Felix by mail regularly, and even Dimitri penned a short letter back to him. But no response came for all the letters he sent to Galatea.</p><p>Sylvain’s at the end of his wits. He’s on the verge of penning a letter stating <em>that is as soon as he is able, he is</em> <em>coming to the territory, welcoming or not</em>, when Amelia delivers a letter addressed to him. She doesn’t stay long, but long enough to send him an exasperated glare. He responds with a sheepish smile and takes the letter from her. Before he can apologize, she turns on her heel without another word, hurrying off in the direction of the kitchen, most likely to quell the proverbial fire he set today.</p><p>He watches her leave, her braid swinging behind her, and Sylvain feels dull ache in his chest. <em>A braid like Ingrid’s.</em> Sighing, he drops his gaze to the letter in his hands, and freezes.</p><p>From Count Galatea.</p><p>A sudden weakness overtakes him, and he sinks to the ground where he stands, hands trembling. He rips the letter open and his eyes can’t read fast enough. Acid rises in this throat and with a sudden rush of adrenaline, he’s back on his feet, rushing to his father’s study. He knocks and enters immediately afterward. His father’s eyes flicker toward him from the maps spread on his desk, face devoid of expression.</p><p>His mind is racing, and he can’t think straight, <em>is his whole body shaking?</em> His father continues to eye him in his silence and raises a brow. “Sylvain?”</p><p>Without preamble, he blurts, “I have a request to make.”</p>
<hr/><p>He arrives at the Galatea estate within the week and he grimaces at the site of gray skies and barren fields. The staff greets him with solemn politeness that he returns in kind.</p><p>No one mentions Ingrid.</p><p>A stable-hand rushes to help Sylvain with his horse, but he offers to come with instead. After all, it’d been some time since he last visited, and he rather liked the Galatea stables. He has fond memories of jumping off barrels of hay, and running amuck through fully occupied stalls of horses and pegasi alike.</p><p>Today, he finds far too many vacancies and puddles of mud pooling on the grounds. A sudden weight settles in his bones. The stable-hand repeats his offer to care for his horse.</p><p> </p><p>Sylvain doesn’t push back this time.</p><p> </p><p>As he leaves, he recognizes the shiny mane of Ingrid’s mare and frowns. <em>It’s longer than what Ingrid likes to keep it.</em></p><p>He catches back up to the Gautier soldiers accompanying him and makes the trek to the manor, where he sees Count Galatea himself waiting. He unconsciously wipes his hands on the back of his pants and lowers himself into a bow. A surprisingly warm hand on his shoulder startles him, and Sylvain looks up. The lines of Count Galatea’s face look deeper than they were a decade ago, hair grayer, eyes sunken in. His mind flashes back to the muddy fields and empty stables and lowers his head again.</p><p>“Thank you, Sylvain. For coming all this way.”</p><p>The way Count Galatea’s voice rumbles above him, Sylvain can’t help but think how much older he sounds too.</p><p>“She’s one of my best friends, Count Galatea. I’ll do everything I can.”</p><p>Without another word, Ingrid’s father disappears down the hallway and Galatea servants usher him to his usual guest room. Along the way, they give him hushed updates, their concern palpable in the silence looming over the house. Once he’s mostly settled in and the last servant turns to leave, he catches her by the hand. She blushes and Sylvain wills down the annoyance that bristles at the edge of his mind. <em>Really?</em> <em>Even now?</em></p><p>“Tell me, is she… Is she at least eating? Anything?”</p><p>The silence and averted eyes tell him enough. He drops her hand and sighs heavily. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Do… do you need to be shown to her rooms?”</p><p>He smiles wryly and shakes his head. The servant looks at him one last time, before leaving hesitantly. Sylvain waits a few more minutes to make sure she’s gone, then he makes the trek to her room himself.</p><p>
  <em>He’s been here enough times to know.</em>
</p><p>As he walks the halls, footsteps echoing back to him, he lets his mind roam free. His heart aches for Ingrid. He couldn’t even imagine going through what she is. His entire being automatically rejects any image of possibly losing her—</p><p>The thought makes his stomach lurch violently and Sylvain stops mid-stride, swallowing thickly. He’s standing in front of her room and a sudden chill comes over him. The hallway is dark, silent, and menacing in a way he never noticed before. No light comes from under Ingrid’s door and his heart begins to race for a completely different reason. His breathing becomes shallow and he forces his hand up to knock. “Ingrid?”</p><p>His voice comes out scratchy and he doesn’t receive an answer. Dread fills his lungs as the darkness narrows his vision, tunneling like he's back in the bottom of that well— <em>He wants to vomit.</em></p><p>He knocks more frantically. “Ingrid, please? It’s me. Please, just… say something. Anything. Let me know you’re alive in there—”</p><p>“Go away, Sylvain.”</p><p>The voice is tiny. Muffled by the door between them, but Sylvain sags against it in relief, head knocking against the wood with a quiet <em>thump</em>. He takes a few steadying breaths and straightens up. “Open up, Ingrid. I want to see you.”</p><p>“I don’t want to see you.”</p><p>He frowns, chest twisting. He tries going for lighthearted, even if he doesn't feel it. “Aw, come on. I came all this way too.”</p><p>“No one asked you to do that.”</p><p>Sylvain bites his tongue. <em>Your father did.</em> He sighs and takes a seat, leaning his weight heavily on her door. “Either way, I’m not leaving until you come out of there.”</p><p>She doesn’t respond.</p><p>So, he settles himself in for a long night. “I’ll wait forever if I have to.”</p><p> </p><p>And that’s where Galatea house staff finds him hours later, slumped against the door as the exhaustion from the past few days of travel finally caught up to him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter was chillin', complete except for one last excerpt that I was stuck on...<br/>but I could actually fit it easier into the next chapter, whenever that happens :').</p><p>/back to my academic writing</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I started writing this project before best laid plans, but that modern au really took off on its own. So if the voice feels different... it probably is, since I just started writing again after a long 2 years of inactivity. </p><p>That aside, the major issue I encountered was how I wrote specific scenes and concepts in this project, that I wanted to translate over to BLP... so I'm stuck writing an AU of my own writing. </p><p>Maddening.</p><p>But here we are anyway! Although I likely will not be able to work on this very frequently, I wanted to post anyway bc it's sylvgrid week and I wrote so much for them... I felt like I could fit two of my documents into the prompts.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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